Bachelor Mom

by Jennifer Greene

  Should he ever fail to obey her sage advice, the threat of habanero-and-cayenne-laced chicken cacciatore was always there.

  The only terrorizing females he’d allowed in his life in several years now were April and Mary Margaret.

  But he was considering adding another.

  Across the yard, past the shadow-dipped fence and moonlit swing set, a light went out in one of the back rooms. Gwen was putting her sons to bed. Like him, she probably couldn’t really rest and relax for a few minutes yet, not until she knew for sure the kids were asleep.

  Light glowed from the jalousie window in her bathroom, then flicked off again. After that she headed for the kitchen. Living across the way from her for the past two years, he knew her patterns fairly well by now. She flew around the kitchen doing little cleanups right after the boys went to bed. A few minutes later she’d check on them. She didn’t let down her hair—so to speak—until she was sure her sons were asleep. Then, often enough, she’d slip off her shoes and wander outside barefoot for a few minutes, closing her eyes, breathing in the night.

  It was her way of letting out the day’s stresses, Spence guessed. But he’d seen her lift her face, seen the moonlight wash over her delicate profile and soft skin. Sometimes a night breeze would pucker off the ocean, cupping the blouse fabric intimately to her high, full breasts, fingering light and shine into her cap of nutmeg brown curls. Sometimes she’d sway in the breeze as if she were hearing music, not dancing, but as if there were a song or dream in her head that she couldn’t stop thinking about.

  During the day, it was almost impossible to catch Gwen when she wasn’t herding kids—hers and half the neighborhood’s. She always had a smile. Was always dressed in practical cotton or denim. Always had time to give a neighbor a helping hand or a listening ear—including him—but he’d never seen any guy around the place except for her good-looking, cold-eyed ex.

  If Spence hadn’t seen her, all those moonlit nights, he would never have guessed there was more to the package than the practical single mom and commonsense neighbor. But he’d seen the sensual beauty in Gwen, the dreamer side to her... and the loneliness.

  From the beginning she’d never given him more than the friendly time of day. Spence sensed she needed healing time to get over her divorce. He understood that. He had scars left over from the breakup of his marriage to May, and there was no fast recovery from certain kinds of emotional wounds.

  Two years had passed, though. Two years of watching her and thinking about her and using their mutual single-parent problems to naturally create excuses to talk with her. Spence had never tried a serious move. It pushed his black humor buttons, though, that an embarrassing number of women in his business life seemed willing to chase him, given no encouragement at all, yet Gwen had never given him the first sign that she noticed he was a male human being. Maybe she didn’t like brown hair and brown eyes. Maybe tall men didn’t turn her on. Maybe she liked big brawny guys instead of lean. Spence had a sister who’d never treated him as sisterly as Gwen did.

  She hadn’t kissed him last night like a sister, though.

  With his gaze still on the window view, Spence set his iced tea glass in the sink. He considered whether he was up for a knife-in-the-gut rejection. He considered how many clear no-touch signals she’d given him over the past two years. He considered that he hadn’t taken a serious risk with a woman since May, and having his heart torn out had been as much fun to recover from as a ballet wound.

  Spence rubbed the back of his neck, then abruptly pivoted around. He checked first on April, to make sure she was dead-to-the-world asleep, then inhaled a lungful of courage and strode determinedly for the back door.

  The problem—the really nasty, unsolvable problem—was that the only way to figure out what Gwen Stanford. felt—or could feel for him—was to go over there and find out.

  But taking the risk sure felt like diving into the ocean with no life buoy or rescue raft in sight.

  Demo version limitation

  Four

  “Practice,” Spence repeated. “There are just some things you need to watch out for, Gwen. Let me give you an example.” He shifted closer on the couch and lifted his hand.

  “You see how innocent this looks? A guy reaches over and touches your hair. It doesn’t seem like a pass. He just seems curious, like he’s been watching the lamplight catch all that gold and shimmer in your hair, and he can’t help but wonder if the texture could possibly feel as soft as it looks. It doesn’t seem like anything threatening is going on here, now does it?”

  “I...” There was a sparkle of mischievous humor in her eyes—until his fingers sieved into her hair. Spence saw her swallow, saw her eyes widen, saw her whole body become statue still.

  “And then the side of his hand strays down the side of your jaw. Again, it doesn’t seem like a pass. It just seems like this guy can’t help himself from discovering how your skin feels, because it looks like cream and it’s just so tempting to touch it. Still, his touch is gentle, not aggressive. Nothing to make you worry, right?”

  “I...” Again, nothing emerged from her mouth but that single, lone syllable. The instant he touched her skin, her gaze riveted on his. He saw confusion in those soft brown eyes, as if she expected the humor in this “coaching lesson” to show back up any second now. But he also saw the same vulnerable shine of willingness and yearning that he’d caught in her eyes the night before.

  “But you see how he’s managed to maneuver close to you? When a guy is moving in on you, you can’t take anything he does as innocent, Gwen. You hear me?”

  “I ... yes, I hear you.”

  “Because if he’s already manipulated the situation to get this close, it’s easy, real easy, for him to follow throngh. like this. See?”

  His lips touched down, softer than thistledown. He only intended a swift, short kiss. Guilt was harassing his conscience pretty mercilessly. Initially this “coaching” lesson had seemed easy to justify. Gwen was beyond bright, but she was also hopelessly honest by nature. Wiles and guiles were just never going to come naturally to her, and she’d really been removed from the predatory single scene for a lot of years. He didn’t want her hurt. A little brotherly coaching would help her to protect herself.

  His reasoning was so self-righteous and gentlemanly that damned if he knew how his conscience saw through it.

  The truth was that he’d never had a single brotherly feeling for Gwen. Another nasty truth was that he’d been edgy ever since she’d mentioned that dude coming on to her in the parking lot. And another unpleasant truth was that if she wanted a taste of recklessness—right or wrong, conscience or no conscience—he didn’t want any guy giving her a sample but him.

  Her mouth was silken, warm. Shy warm. Tempting warm. She didn’t move, didn’t seem to even breathe, but her lips were vibrantly alive under his; mobile, supple. Alluring. Her eyes closed, lashes fluttering down to make satin shadows on her cheeks. Her warm skin seemed to release the perfume she was wearing, nothing musky, nothing heavy—but something innocently light and flowery like lily of the valley. It had never occurred to him before that such a vague, sweet scent could be remotely dangerous.

  Now it did.

  Spence was well aware that rum had likely influenced her responsiveness to him the night before. But tonight she’d had nothing but a glass of limeade. Her lips tasted of those tangy limes, of the sugar and of a spicy-sweet flavor belonging solely to her.

  He never meant to deepen the kiss. And when she felt the soft, testing intrusion of his tongue, her hand shot up to stop wherever that kiss was traveling. But she didn’t stop him. Her fingers landed on the cords of his neck, touched them, and then she folded a palm around his nape and pulled him closer to her.

  She’d treated him like a friendly, neighborly eunuch for so long that he’d never been sure she noticed he was a man. His hand strayed to the manic pulse in her throat. Her tongue met his, slippery as a secret, matching his, matching the pressure of a kiss t
hat had already turned dark as a storm and just as wildly tumultuous.

  She noticed.

  Her spine curved like a bowstring, her breasts molding to his chest. Desire bucked through him like an unruly colt. He was no stranger to desire, but physical needs and finding a woman whose response to him was honest and real and vulnerable aroused him like a devil fire. If he’d never put into words the reason he felt attracted to Gwen, it was all here. An instinct that she was special, a male gut intuition that she was totally different from any woman he knew, that she could matter like no one in his life ever had.

  His palm swept down her side, skimming her ribs, sneaking over to the ripe, taut swell of one breast. He heard her breath catch- Saw her eyes shoot open, dazed and smoky.

  He hadn’t touched her, not really, hadn’t gone near a button on her cream silk blouse, hadn’t done a single forbidden thing. But it was suddenly there, that feeling of forbidden, of how easy it’d be to tip straight off the cliff of reckless and not look back. Hot, sharp desire was pumping through him like a heady drug. He loved the look in her eyes, loved touching her, could not possibly have misread the yearning, willing promise in her responsiveness to him. But she couldn’t possibly know what she really felt for him this soon. And he was close, too damn close, to losing control.

  He murmured, “About five minutes ago, tiger, you were supposed to bash the guy’s head in.”

  It took a second before that registered, but he could see that some gentle, teasing humor was the right tack to take. It gave her something comfortable to handle. “If you, um, covered that section in the coaching lesson, I missed it.”

  “You’re kidding. Didn’t I mention that part of the rules?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, maybe the coach needs some coaching. I could have sworn I knew this material pretty well, but to be honest, it’s been a long time. And I never meant to turn into the manipulative jerk I was trying to warn you about.”

  “You didn’t. You weren’t,” she said quietly, sincerely. She swallowed hard and came up with a smile. “That was quite a lesson. And you’re quite a coach, McKenna. But it’s definitely past time I headed home.”

  She flew. Flew into her shoes, flew to check on her sons, flew to scoop up her shopping packages, flew to the door. Like nothing had happened, she chattered about sending the boys home by seven-thirty in the morning, and about how it was her turn to take April next time so Spence could have his turn at having some free time. A magpie couldn’t have been friendlier, but she avoided meeting his gaze directly, and she sprinted out the door as if devils were biting at her heels.

  When she was gone, Spence stood in the darkness and dragged a hand through his hair.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d made headway... or scared her half to death.

  Ditto for him. Positively he had willingly opened new doors with Gwen. But he’d tasted risk as well as promise in the possibilities. He hadn’t guarded his heart all these years by mistake. Loneliness was nasty, but at least it was safe. He’d been hurt by the mistakes in love he’d made in the past.

  So had she.

  The risk of hurting her preyed on his mind. And Spence suddenly felt no more safe than if he were standing on a snow-topped mountain ... in avalanche country.

  Because she was expecting April anytime, Owen had just glanced at the McKenna house when she saw their back door open. Dad and daughter both headed across the yard to her house, but April dashed ahead, her blond hair flying as she bounded across the fence. She snagged a hug from Owen long before Spence caught up.

  “Ho-boy, ho-boy. Are we gonna have fun!” April said.

  “You bet we are!” Owen released the blond moppet, who zoomed off immediately to join the other kinds. At last count there were around ten—not just her two, but the regular gang from the neighborhood. Typical of a Friday after a long week of school, the devils had energy to burn. The decibel level varied from ear-piercing caterwauls to your more basic shrieks and screams.

  Spence negotiated his way past the chaos and exuberant tumble of small bodies with a humorous shake of his head. “Holy kamoly. What on earth have you volunteered for?”

  She chuckled. “We’re going to make mango ice cream. It’s a guaranteed terrible mess, but the kids really love it.” Minutes before, she’d just finished finger-counting the props to make sure she had everything ready—sugar, cream of tartar, mango puree, a big lime, partially whipped heavy cream, an old-fashioned ice cream “crank” churn ... and of course, the garden hose. “I learned from past experience to do everything outside—not just the chum to crank the ice cream, but spare kids’ clothes and the hose handy. My kitchen looked like the scene from a horror movie the one time I let ’em do it in the house.”

  “It sounds like fun...” Spence’s gaze swiveled toward her, “but also like an awful lot of work for you to take on alone, especially with this many kids. You sure you don’t need some help?”

  Gwen needed some “help” the instant be lucked at her. She was dressed appropriately for the disaster about to happen—her oldest T-shirt and shorts, track shoes, no makeup and a backward baseball cap to keep her hair out of the way. She could easily compete in a fashion show for bag ladies, which Spence could hardly miss. Yet his gaze traveled the length of her as if a three-night-old embrace was suddenly intimately, volatiely fresh on his mind.

  “No, no, I don’t need any help. And I want you to go off and have a great time—and we agreed, it’s your turn for a night off.” Gwen told herself, for the zillionth time, that she was imagining the way he looked at her. Just as she would be crazy to imagine foolish implications from a few kisses.

  They’d been such good friends. Gwen didn’t want to ruin that, and she still couldn’t quite understand how, twice now, an embrace had erupted between them out of nowhere—but she felt positive Spence never meant anything to happen. likely it was just accidental. A couple of mutual moments of insanity. She’d probably mortifyingly proved to Spence that she did need “coaching.” The difference between his sophistication and experience and her awkward bumbling must have been obvious to him.

  There was no point being embarrassed, Gwen had decided. It had happened. If that last embrace lingered in her mind with lethal tenacity, it was because she was a goose. A goose who’d never learned to be independent enough to handle herself—which was exactly what she was trying to correct in her life right now.

  “You sure ended up with a bunch of extra kids,” Spence noticed.

  “Yeah, I swear kids reproduce in this backyard like rabbits—I think the word spread through the grapevine about making ice cream tonight. On the other hand, it’s my theory that if you’re gonna ask for trouble, you might as well go for it whole hog.” She added firmly, “Now don’t be worried about April. I promise, she’ll have a blast.”

  “I couldn’t be less worried. She always has a great time with you.”

  “I’ll just bring her over when she wakes up in the morning, okay? So you don’t have to worry about what time you get home...” Her voice trailed off as she saw a four-year-old tumble off a swing. She started sprinting for the neighborhood tyke at the same time she heard the telephone jangle from the house.

  “I’ll get the phone,” Spence offered.

  “You don’t have to—” she started to say, but Spence was already bounding through her back door. By the time she’d scooped up the tear-streaked four-year-old, he showed up back in the doorway.

  Spence’s hand covered the receiver. “It’s your ex. You want to talk to him?”

  Did a dog appreciate ticks? “Sure,” she said. Still carrying the four-year-old, she took the receiver and stepped inside. Spence had to think her kitchen looked like the aftermath of a hurricane, but actually the cluttery mess was pretty well organized. It took one pan to cook and cool the sugar and tartar together, another bowl for the mango and lime mixture. Her next job was to whip the heavy cream. Once that was done, she could fold all the different ingredients together and let the kids loose
with the old-fashioned churn outside.

  Temporarily, though, she had no time to explain to Spence that the jungle of pots and pans and mess was necessary. Handling Gertrude—the four-year-old—and dealing with her ex on the telephone were both full-time jobs. Swiftly she washed the tears off the little one and handed her a sucker—a consolation prize for suffering a tumble—and then shooed the urchin back outside.

  Making Ron disappear was never so easy. Given a choice between talking to her ex and a case of hives, Gwen would vote for the hives. Apparently the sole reason her ex called this time was to let her know that when he’d had the boys for his custody weekend, Josh had had a spot on his shirt.

  “Pardon me?”

  “There was a big spot under the collar, you know, of his blue shirt.”

  “Ron, dirt flies at Josh the instant he wakes up. He’s seven years old. And you were taking them on a picnic, for heaven’s sake, so what’s the big deal?”

  Ron sighed, heavily and deliberately. “You don’t have to get all emotional. I was just trying to help you. This was a professional picnic, and I expected the kids to look nice. And if you didn’t realize that shirt had a spot...”

  Gwen wasn’t headache prone, but when she hung up the phone, she leaned against the wall and rubbed at the sudden throbbing ache in her temples. Doctors had to be picky, she’d told herself a hundred times. It was how they were supposed to be, because even small mistakes could affect people’s lives. Ron didn’t mean to be belittling.

  But like all the arguments during their marriage, they were over small nothings that somehow made Gwen feel she was to blame. Guilty. At fault. She didn’t have to worry about pleasing him anymore, but conversations with him always brought back memories of her feeling like a failure, both as a wife and as a woman.

  “Gwen?”